


hiraeth - sherlock holmes/reader

by uncomfortablynumb



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-08-08 12:05:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16429079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uncomfortablynumb/pseuds/uncomfortablynumb
Summary: Hiraeth (pronounced [hiraɪ̯θ]) is a Welsh word which means 'nostalgia', or, more commonly, 'homesickness'. Many Welsh people claim 'hiraeth' is a word which cannot be translated, meaning more than solely "missing something" or "missing home."





	1. misfortune in a coffee shop

In a figurative sense, you had never had a home. You had never had a place where you felt safe, comfortable. Your father could never find a place to settle down in, with somebody to settle down with. He was always moving between women and between houses. So, when he had finally managed to find a woman that he loved, and a home that he felt comfortable in, you were ecstatic. Finally, you could settle down. And settle down you did, for three years. However, everything came crashing down when you applied for college. Your stepmother left you and your father after he was diagnosed with cancer. You went to a local college so that you could stay with your dad for as long as possible. 

So, here you stood, behind the counter of a local café, called Hug in a Mug, in which you were employed. You still lived with your father, whom you loved dearly. Though, you feared you wouldn’t be living with him for much longer. You stared down at the counter, waiting for somebody to saunter up to you a demand a cup of piping hot coffee. That's the thing about coffee shops- People walk in and out of coffee shops, ordering the same things, paying, and then continuing onto wherever they were going. They all seemed the same. Yet, they all had names, and complex lives, and families. Each person was their own. Yet, all of the faces blurred together into one little section of the world. Those who went to the coffee shop. 

This is why you worked at the coffee shop. You found yourself deducing what people's lives were like. You memorized names, orders. Because people don’t change. They live the same, mundane lives. So why not make a game out of it? You had a head full of coffee orders and worries, and you honestly would not have it any other way. As people filed in and out of the cafe, you grew increasingly more bored. You could feel every passing second, as you stared at the door, waiting for someone else to saunter in. As if somebody had read your thoughts, you hear the bell connected to the door give a small ding, and your head tilted slightly. Tall, 30 some year old man, dark curly hair and eyes like ice. You found this man to be Sherlock Holmes. Not a regular customer, in fact, he had never been there before. No, you recognized this man from the papers. He was popular, often reported solving mysteries that even Detective Investigator Greg Lestrade wasn’t able to. So, why was this genius of a man sauntering into a small coffee shop at 5:30 in the afternoon? 

He waltzed up to the counter, his hands folded neatly behind his back, as his gaze flicked from the menu that hung behind your head, to you, “I’ll take a medium caramel latte,” he spoke, his voice ringing clearly throughout the otherwise empty cafe, 

“Coming right up, Mr. Holmes,” you replied, as you turned on your heel, taking a mental note of the time of day, and what he ordered as you made the latte. You finished it off with a simple design of a leaf drawn out of creamer, before putting a lid over the beverage, and setting it on the counter, “That will be $3, please.” You announced, though your voice was still soft. However, the detective had already sat the correct amount of money on the counter. He took his drink without so much as a thank you, leaving you slightly dumbfounded, but intrigued. And with that odd event, your day ended. You pulled your apron off of your petite body, and hung it on the wall, before grabbing your belongings and rushing out of the door of the cafe. 

You fiddled with your keys, as you unlocked the door to your shared flat with your father. Something seemed off about the atmosphere of the flat. Normally, there would be some sort of soft jazz music playing throughout the house, but today it was eerily silent. “Papa?” You called out, in hope of getting a response, but to no avail. You set your bag down, a wave of unease washing over you as you slowly made your way throughout the flat. Eventually, you happened across your father room, and you knocked on the door, but received no response. With an apprehensive sigh, you gripped the doorknob, and twisted it, pushing the door open.

“Papa…?” your voice barely reached that of a whimper, as your eyes landed on his lifeless, pale body sitting in a pool of his own blood. Your hands trembled as you reached for your mobile phone, and dialed the emergency services number into the keypad, explaining the situation you found yourself in as best as you possibly could. Within 10 minutes, you heard the sounds of sirens outside of the flat complex. You stood with your back against the wall of your father's bedroom, staring at your hands, as you heard voices talking loudly within the small space of his room. 

“Miss? Miss!” You heard a voice call, as your head snapped up to meet the eyes of a dark-skinned woman, with eyes that showed intrigue, “Please, come with me,” She finished, as you slowly moved away from your spot against the wall, and followed the woman out of the bedroom. You settled yourself down on the couch, and she drew out a notepad, “My name is Detective Sally Donovan. Now, I need you to tell me what happe-” her phrase was cut short, as two men rushed through the front door of the flat, 

“Where is the body?” came the all-too-familiar baritone voice. A voice in which belonged to a Mister Sherlock Holmes, being closely followed by his dear friend John Watson. You heard Donovan let out a groan of frustration, as she mumbled something about a Sherlock being a freak. You rubbed your hands together, staring down at your lap as you continued to process exactly what was happening. 

“Ma’am?” you heard somebody behind you, his voice quiet and gentle. You turned your head in his direction, rubbing the knuckles on your right hand with your left, “May I sit down?” his voice was kind, making sure that his voice was soothing rather than intimidating. You nodded your head slowly, though you were still apprehensive as he slowly sat next to you. You recognized this kind, aged man as Doctor John Watson, who investigated with Sherlock. As if on cue, Sherlock approached the couch, his hands folded behind his back as he paced back and forth. 

“How was your latte…?” your voice was quiet, as you watched the detective. His eyebrow quirked in surprise, as his head snapped towards you.

“It wasn’t horrible,” he announced after a moment of thinking, as he turned his attention back to pacing, “You lived with your father, for all of your life. You could have moved out several years ago, however, he fell terminally ill and you decided that the ideal situation for him would be to be with his only daughter. Of course, you were open to the idea that his death could occur at any point in time with little to no warning, however, you are still surprised by the fact that he turned up murdered inside of his own bedroom. This added to the fact that there was seemingly no forced entry, and that the wounds were made sporadically, and by several different weapons. Both knives and a blunt instrument were used, meaning that whoever did this didn’t have much time to think about how they were going to kill him,” he paused for a moment, his gaze turning to you with a deducing gaze, “the approximate time of death was 6:15, and you were the only person to see him whatsoever today. However judging by your labored breathing, and the small dribbles of sweat dripping from your forehead still, you walked here. Your shift ended at 5:45, and it is a 40-minute walk from your place of work to here, meaning that there was no way that you could have killed him.” He finished, as he crossed his arms across his chest.

“Great deductions, Mr. Holmes. However, you seem to neglect the fact that a vase over there is broken,” you pointed in the direction of a shattered blue vase in the kitchen, “therefore meaning that there was some kind of struggle, which would explain the multiple bruises on my father's arms and legs. Oh, and there are muddy footprints throughout the flat,” your voice was quiet as you told him this, almost nervous that he would look down on you for calling him out, however, what you did was something that you had never expected from him,

“Very good, Ms. (L/N). Upon further inspection, there seems to be a missing knife from this knife block, and there are pieces of blood on the vase. This leads me to believe that the blunt instrument that he was hit with, was, in fact, the vase.” He nodded his head in your direction, giving you acknowledgment for the deductions. You nodded your head in response, as you crossed your arms. You turned your head slightly, to see John Watson’s eyes flicking between you, and Sherlock, his face showing confusion. 

“How did you do that?” John’s voice was quiet as his eyes finally settled on you. You simply shrugged your shoulders in response, the shaking of your hands having ceased a few minutes prior.

“Now, (Y/N). I need you to give me every piece of information you have on your father. Past relationships, his doctor, everything you can.” He demanded, his eyes narrowed at you in concentration. With those words, you began to go into extreme depth of everything that you knew about your father, eventually ending on the last woman that he had been with, Cynthia Rose. Sherlock seemed to be taking mental notes the entire time, as his eyes stayed fixed on you. You felt as if this wasn't going to be the last you saw of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.


	2. no place like home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> after the events that had ruined the rest of your life, you receive a strange text and you are suddenly thrust back into the world of your fathers murder

The day had passed by achingly slow, and you now sat on the couch of your once shared flat. You were relatively calm, in relation to the events that had occurred mere hours before. The body of your father had been removed, taken to St. Bartholomew’s Morgue for further inspection. You were apprehensive at first, as part of you still believed that your father would return home, though deep down you knew he would never walk through your front door again. 

It was a difficult idea to grasp, as your father was all that you had in life. Your mother had left early, and your dad was as strong as could be. He took care of you better than any mother ever could. He supported you in everything that you did, so the fact that he was gone hit you hard. Yet, you managed to stay calm and collect, curled under a blanket with a copy of one of H.P Lovecraft's books nestled between your arms. You took the corner of the page that you were on, rubbing the thin, worn paper between your thumbs. It was a calming movement, and you released a small breath of relief. 

Perhaps things wouldn’t be so awful after all, maybe, just maybe you’d be able to move past what happened. Deep in thought, you almost miss the vibrating of your mobile phone. You let out an exasperated sigh, as you placed a bookmark in your page, and reached for your phone.

221B Baker Street.  
One hour, be there.  
S.H

It took you a moment to register that Sherlock Holmes had somehow obtained your number, though you could not claim that you were surprised. Upon realizing that you only had one hour to change back into normal attire, and rush to his flat, you slammed your book into the cushions of your couch, and scrambled to throw on a grey flannel, placing a soft blue sweater over it, and a pair of black jeans to top the outfit off. You ran a comb through your hair quickly, before grabbing your purse, and your copy of H.P Lovecraft's Great Tales of Horror, and dashing out of the front door. 

You managed to hail a taxi, “221 Baker Street,” you directed gently, as you ran a nimble hand through your hair. You fiddled for your mobile phone, turning on the screen to check the time, you had 15 minutes left, and the drive was going painfully slow. You groaned softly to yourself, as you ruffled your hair. When the taxi pulled up to the infamous Baker Street flat complex, you handed the driver the necessary amount, and you practically leaped out of the car. You weren’t entirely sure why you were rushing, but the text seemed to be of an urgent nature. 

You grabbed the door handle, twisting it clockwise as you gently pushed the door open. The stairway was dim, a single, flickering light bulb blinking on, and off, in a repetitive rhythm. You carefully made your way up the old staircase, watching for the sight of the 221B flat, in which you have traveled all this way for. Upon reaching the door, you gently knocked on it, awaiting a response. From inside of the flat, you registered a small grunt, as the doorknob turned, yanking it open to reveal John Watson, in a pair of pajama bottoms, and a plain white shirt. You quirked an eyebrow at this, having expected him to be dressed. You let out a small laugh, as John whirled around to face Sherlock, who was pacing back and forth throughout the shared living space,  
“(Y/N).” Sherlock acknowledged your presence absentmindedly, as he rebuttoned the cuffs of his sleeves, staring out the window in which he stood in front of. You nodded curtly in John’s direction, as a warm smile wove its way onto your lips, to which he recuperated the sentiment. The detective mumbled something to himself, as he motioned you over, his gaze never leaving the window. The flat was rather homely, to an extent that you could fathom, despite never feeling at home. You obliged, trotting quickly to Sherlock’s side, a look of slight confusion etched on your face, as you gazed up at the tall man,

“Your fathers ex-wife, Cynthia,” he began, his attention now turned towards you, “when was the last time that you saw her?” he finished, as he turned on his heel, as he marched towards the chair that faced the kitchen, before lowering himself onto it with a concentrated hum. You blinked, attempting to recall when that was before your eyes snapped open,

“I ran into her several days ago, claimed that she was planning to leave London within the next two weeks or so,” you recalled, as your eyes scanned Sherlock curiously,

“Did she mention with whom she was staying with?” he inquired, as he rose to his feet once more, stalking towards you as his calculating eyes scanned over your body, attempting to deduce what he could of you, which was surprisingly very little. This confused him greatly, though he kept these thoughts to himself,

“She told me that she was staying with her brother if I remember correctly, so perhaps begin there?” you suggested, your soft (E/C) eyes gazing at Sherlock, as his eyes seemed to be calculating something in which you could not understand. 

“To her brother’s flat then, I suppose!” his voice came suddenly, as he pushed past you, grabbing his coat from the hook that was placed next to the door, “John, put on something presentable, we’re inquiring a possible suspect, the least you can do is look the part of a detective!” his voice came out like a hiss, as if he was genuinely angered by the former war doctors incompetence. John growled softly to himself, as he rushed towards his room and threw on a more appropriate outfit, to which Sherlock nodded in approval. Suddenly, Sherlock's gaze snapped towards you, “You know where her brother lives, correct?” you nodded in response, and his lips twitched up into an excited smile, “off we go, then!” Sherlock hummed, as you grabbed ahold of both yours and Johns wrists, practically dragging the two of you out the door. The three of you somehow managed to squeeze into a small cab, as you instructed the drive on where to go, your left hand tapping against your thigh in a nervous manner. Sherlock noted this, storing it away in his brain for future reference. 

Upon arrival, you let John exit the cab first, who gave you a small smile as he did so, next, you motioned for Sherlock to go as well, so he shuffled out of the cab, ducking his head slightly as not to hit it on the frame of the car door. You exited shortly after the two men, your petite hands shaking slightly, as you gripped the sides of your leg. Sherlock took this fact into consideration, before swallowing his pride, and his basic principals, and he grabbed your hand. He took note on how small and soft they were. You stiffened just slightly at his actions, looking at him with blown eyes, “I’m simply trying to calm your nerves, (Y/N), don’t read too much into it. Sentiment is a chemical defect on the losing side.” he explained, as he walked forward. You frowned slightly at this, but you nodded your head nonetheless. John walked forward, and he pressed the doorbell in, a soft chime ringing throughout the house. The door handle wiggled slightly, and opened to reveal your ex-step-mother in her nightgown, a confused look on her face,

“(Y/N)?” she squinted, her confusion growing, “Why, it’s nearly midnight. What are you doing here? Who are these men?” her words became almost frantic, seeming as if she was guilty of something.

“May we come in,” Sherlock intervened before you had the chance to speak, you thanked him silently by giving his hand a slight squeeze, “We would like to ask you a few questions.” he squeezed your hand in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope that you enjoyed this chapter, and i apologize for it taking such a long time for me to write. judging by my previous update dates, i'll most likely be posting on weekends, unless i have wifi access, or i write faster, have a nice day, and make sure to leave constructive criticism, or compliments in the comments!:)


	3. curbs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as you question cynthia rose, theres some character development

As Cynthia pushed the door open further, allowing you and your partners to step inside, you saw a hint of fear in her eyes, to which you quirked your eyebrow in question at. With your small hands trembling slightly, Sherlock glanced at you from his peripherals, as he rubbed his thumb against your knuckles reassuringly. You gave him a slight nod, as you looked Cynthia in the eyes, mumbling something to yourself, something along the lines of “guilty”. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at this, not hearing your words, but you shrugged it off calmly. Sherlock let go of your hand, instead folding his hands in his lap. 

“Now, Cynthia, I’m assuming that you’ve heard…?” Sherlock's baritone voice rang loud and clear throughout the small living room, and Cynthia flinched loudly at the volume,

“What?” Cynthia questioned, tilting her head slightly as her eyes shifted between you, Sherlock and John, as if she was completely oblivious to what Sherlock spoke of.

“Your ex-husband, (Y/D/N), was murdered earlier this afternoon. Did you not hear?” from the angle in which you sat, you swore you saw a flash of remorse, and a small amount of guilt in her eyes. Perhaps you were just fishing for a solution, blaming everybody that you came into contact with. Lost in your own vengeful thoughts, you had failed to notice that your hands were shaking once again. Surprisingly enough, Sherlock paid no notice to this as well. 

“That’s awful!” Cynthia’s words snapped you out of your trance, and you glanced down at your shaking hands, before proceeding to rub them together, distracting yourself from the anxiety that swirled inside of you. 

“Yes, terribly.” Sherlock acknowledged, unknowingly muttering these words at the same instance as you, causing you to glance at him from the corner of your eye, before snapping your attention back to Cynthia. John glanced at the two of you, his eyes snapping between you, and Sherlock. He figured that he’d be seeing much more of you, judging by the way that Sherlock would glance at you every few moments. The hand holding instance did not go unnoticed by the retired war doctor, and quite frankly, it amused him. 

“Ma’am, Your ex-husband- in his will he left you something, stated that you gifted it to him? Do you have any idea of what that might be?” John intervened, seeing as Sherlock was too busy, most likely thinking through possible scenarios. You were off in your own little world, accusatory eyes darting back and forth across the room. John found it quite adorable, as you tapped your fingers on the couch in rhythmic patterns, staring at Cynthia. You looked like a small child that needed to be protected to John. Cynthia’s eyebrows furrowed at John’s words, as she seemingly tried to rack her brain for any possible gift that she had given the late man,

“Ah, for our 1 year anniversary together, I gifted him a blue vase, with white markings,” her voice was quiet as she said these words, her eyes flicking back and forth in a nervous manner. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at this, as he scrutinized her every movements. Abruptly, Sherlock rose to his feet, causing you to flinch slightly at his sudden movements. His doctor companion gazed up at him, before slowly rising to his feet as well. Sherlock glanced down at you, gesturing for you to stand up as well. You complied, as you raised yourself from your seat, your knees wobbling slightly, as you returned your scrutinizing gaze to your ex-step-mother. Sherlock placed a hand on the small of your back, gingerly letting his fingers rest against your clothed skin, as he kept his gaze on the woman in front of the group. 

“We’ll be taking our leave now.” Sherlock declared, as his fingers danced gently across your spine, his eyes occasionally glancing back at you. You blinked a bit, shivering very slightly at his touch, as you dug your fingernails into the palms of your hands. You sighed a little bit, letting your gaze wander up to the detective, before your eyes immediately shot back down. You muttered a small ‘goodbye’ to Cynthia, before turning on your heel and quietly ambling to the front door. John smiled lightly at Cynthia,

“Have a nice night, sorry for disturbing you,” he proclaimed, nodding at her, as she let out a weary laugh,

“No worries,” she hummed in response, her gaze flickering to Sherlock, who stared down at her, his eyes still picking her apart, before he too turned on his heel and stalked off to the door in pursuit of (Y/N). John shook his head good-naturedly, as he let out an offhanded laugh, nodding his head at her once more, before shoving his hands into his pockets, and sauntering off towards the door. (Y/N) was outside, standing by the curb, as she stared up at the twinkling night sky. Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly at this sight, as he approached you with in air of caution. It was obvious you were distressed, however he also wanted to know whether you had arrived at the same conclusion as he had. He loitered behind you for a moment, before eventually speaking,

“I’m assuming you know who did it?” his voice was quiet as he spoke, and slightly weary, as he did not wish to upset you any further, 

“Yes, though I do hope I’m wrong,” you responded after a long moment of silence. You raised your hand to your face, as you rubbed at your eyes with your sleeve, before turning around to face the detective that lingered a few inches away from you,

“Her brother…” the both of you concluded at the same time, to which you both nodded, “Obviously, Cynthia helped,” you added on, as you stuffed your hands into the back pockets of your jeans, to which Sherlock nodded in agreement. John approached the two of you,

“I’m assuming that you lot have figured out who killed him?” his voice rang quite loudly in comparison to the hushed voices that you and the detective spoke in. Sherlock let out a jaded laugh at this, as he nodded his head. John nodded, as he smiled pityingly at you, worry in his eyes. You shrugged your shoulders with a forced smile, as you turned around to stare up at the sky once more. As you stood there, the doctor stepped away, and attempted to hail a cab. Sherlock studied you from behind, his eyebrows furrowed slightly in confusion,

“It’s rude to stare, Mr. Holmes,” you mumbled, still refusing to look the detective in the eyes. He let out an almost inaudible laugh at this, as he shook his head slightly, choosing to let the comment linger in the air.

“Sherlock, (Y/N)!” John called, as he stood by the door of the cab, tapping his foot impatiently as if the aforementioned people were small children, and he the mother. With that, you and Sherlock made your way to the cab, before piling into the backseat. Once again, you found yourself stuck between the doctor and the detective. This time, you let out an airy laugh, as you rested your head against the back of the seat, closing your eyes. As you sat there, you felt a warm hand on yours once more, and you allowed a small smile to fall onto your lips. 

“Will we be arresting them tomorrow?” you mumbled, your eyes still closed as the shaking in your hands subsided,

“Most definitely,” the detective responded, a small smile gracing his lips as he glanced over at you. Your lips twitched up into a small smile, resembling his, as a lone tear streaked slowly down your face,

“Good…” you mumbled, as you let out a barely audible yawn, letting your head loll to the side. Sherlock rubbed a gentle circle on the back of your hand, and with the thought of justice being served, you drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> perhaps it seems like im rushing things (both in and out of story), but it's whatever- if you guys want, i can slow down but yea.


	4. no sentiment intended

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a cute filler chapter with no sentiment

When your eyes fluttered open the next morning, you found yourself in an unfamiliar bedroom. It was fairly clean, and it smelt strongly of old books, tobacco smoke, and mint. The smell was lovely, and oddly enough, held a sense of familiarity to it. You furrowed your eyebrows slightly, as you tried to place your finger on the lovely scent that filled your senses. As you thought, you continued to look around the room, your eyes eventually landing on the bed that you were on. You were under a soft grey duvet, paired and dark grey sheets. The scent was stronger here. You felt like you were pressed against something, and when you looked over your shoulder you stiffened slightly. There he was, Sherlock Holmes, his arms wrapped around you, and his face peaceful as he slept. You felt your cheeks burning a bright red. That was the scent. It was Sherlock. Sherlock smelt of old books, tobacco smoke, and mint, and you loved it. You let your eyes close, letting yourself indulge in the display of sentiment for as long as possible.

“You know, (Y/N), you’re really bad at pretending-“ his voice came suddenly, and it held a husky, teasing sound to it. You let out a small squeak at this,

“S-sorry…” you mumbled, as you hid your face in your hands. He chuckled at this, as he gently rested his head against your back,

“No need to worry, (Y/N). You fell asleep in the cab, so I carried you up here, and I ended up falling asleep. No sentiment.” He said the last words with authority, though he still held you in his arms,

“But of course,” your response was slow, uncertain, as you snuggled a small bit into his arms, a tiny smile gracing your lips. “We’ve only just met, Mr. Holmes, and I’m already in your bed,” you said this teasingly, as you glanced over your shoulder to look at him,

“Ah, but Ms. (L/N), you seem to be enjoying yourself,” he chuckled softly, as he kept his head against your shoulder,

“Won’t John be suspicious?” you questioned, as you closed your eyes once more, basking in his scent,

“No, no. He knows that I don’t do sentiment.” he explained, shrugging his shoulders carelessly. You nodded in response, 

“You’re comfortable.” you proclaimed, as you hummed softly. He let out a small laugh, as he lifted his head to look at you,

“We can stay like this for exactly 8 minutes before John starts to worry and he comes in to see us in this precarious situation,” he declared, as his grip on your waist tightened slightly. You smiled slightly to yourself, deciding to turn around in his arms, now resting your head against his chest. He stiffened slightly at the sudden contact, before slowly relaxing. “5 minutes.” he mumbled, staring down at you with confusion in his eyes. He wasn’t sure what it was about you, as he gently danced his fingers across your waist. You hummed gently in content, as you attempted to hide the giggles rising in your throat. Of course you were ticklish, but you refused to tell anyone that. 

“Mr. Holmes, you shouldn’t tempt me like this, I might do something that I’ll regret,” your voice was laced with amusement, as you tilted your head up to look him in the eyes. A small smirk wove its way onto his lips,

“Is that a threat, Ms. (L/N)?” He stared down at you, still gently rubbing your waist, 

“Threats are for those who lack power. What I give you, Mr. Holmes, is my word.”

“Ms. (L/N), you have 10 seconds before a Mr. John Hamish Watson bursts through that door~” His voice was teasing, as rested his head between your collarbone and neck for a second, before gently nudging you off of the bed. You stumbled, catching yourself as you glanced back at Sherlock with an annoyed glare, to which he just smirked in return,

“(Y/N)- Lestrade said he needs to ta- Oh, you’re already up?” John opened the door fully, his head tilting slightly, as you smiled tiredly at him, “Well, as I was saying, Lestrade needs to question you. Said he wanted to know your opinion on your father.” He explained, giving you a kind smile. You nodded, 

“Sure, just give me a second to freshen up.” You stated, to which John nodded in response, closing the door once again. Your gaze immediately snapped to Sherlock, who had been pretending to sleep the entire time, “Asshole!” you hissed, and he simply opened his eyes, and winked at you. You rolled your eyes in response, as you turned to the vanity in his room, gently running your fingers through your hair, “don’t come out directly after me.” you mumbled, before cracking your knuckles amd walking out the door, making your way to the living room.

“Ah, (Y/N), good morning. How have you been holding up?” Lestrade’s voice was kind as he spoke, his worn eyes scanning you for signs of distress, to which you simply smiled at,

“Good morning, Detective Lestrade. If you’ve come to figure out who I think did it, don’t bother. Just go and arrest Cynthia Rose, and her brother Jonathan Rose,” you hummed as you said this, lowering yourself onto the couch that you found yourself in front of. Lestrade furrowed his brows slightly, “And you’re sure about this?” he questioned, and you simply nodded in response. 

“Gavin, both (Y/N) and I came to the same conclusion, so I can assure you that The Rose Siblings are the ones to arrest,”

“Greg. My name is Greg, Sherlock.”

“Oh, whatever Geoff,” Sherlock huffed, causing Gavin-Greg-Geoff to throw his hands up in the air in defeat. 

“How would you feel if I forgot your name? Maybe I’ll start calling you Sean!” Lestrade proclaimed, as he crossed his arms over his chest,

“You could never forget my name, Gus. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn't have a job!” Sherlock teased, as he stared Lestrade down. 

“Gus? Really Sherlock?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> probably rushed and it's very ooc but whatever- i hope you enjoyed it nonetheless:))


	5. subjective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a short filler chapter becuase im running out of ideas .

Despite the events that had occurred less than 24 hours ago, you found yourself behind the familiar counter, staring at familiar people, and making familiar orders. New people rarely showed up, and you were grateful for that. Your remembrance of peoples names, and orders, though useless, was calming. The bell rang,

“Philip Reed, large peppermint mocha with two shots of espresso,” you mumbled to yourself, as you began to make the beverage. He always came in at the same time on wednesdays. The man was aged, specks of grey hair protruding from his head. He worked at the newspaper, “Morning, Philip.” You greeted, upon hearing him approach the counter. His steps were heavy. He grunted in response, as you finished his drink. You set it on the counter, taking the money that he handed you.

“You’re an angel.” He grunted, taking the hot beverage from you, “Have a good day.” He called, before leaving the store. You let out an exasperated sigh, as you shifted behind the counter. The café was quiet for some time, as you sat on a chair that you had placed behind the counter for your own benefit. The bell rang, and you checked the time, 

“Sherlock Holmes, medium caramel latte.” You mumbled, as you stood up from your seat in order to make the drink for him, 

“Bold of you to assume that I would be ordering the same beverage, (Y/N).” His baritone voice filled the otherwise silent café.

“We’re creatures of habit, Mr. Holmes. Even if you don’t want to admit it, we all have some sort of routine. Whether it be sitting in the same seat when you go somewhere, or the way that you sleep. We all have some sort of routine.” You retorted, as you set his now finished drink on the counter, 

“I suppose you’re correct.” He admitted after some thinking. He grabbed the drink from the counter, as he reached to his wallet.

“Don’t. It’s on the house.” You interrupted him quickly. He blinked in response,

“Why?” He cocked his head to the side in genuine confusion.

“You solved my father's murder. There’s no way to repay you for that, but this is the least that I could do.” You responded, “So don’t even try to pay.” You finished, as you crossed your arms over your chest stubbornly. He simply shrugged his shoulders in response, as he turned on his heel to walk out the door. “You’re a good person, Mr. Holmes.” You called, as he opened the door.

“Goodness is subjective, dear.” He called in response, as the door slammed shut behind him. You were left with your own thoughts once again. 

The day passed by achingly slow, so when you were finally able to clock out, you practically were leaping for joy. You walked out of the door, locking it behind you. You decided to take your time, as you quietly admired the city. You rarely took time to do so, so you allowed yourself to just stare up at the sky. About an hour later, though, you eventually made it to your once shared flat. You unlocked the door, 

“I’m home.” You called, though it fell upon deaf (and nonexistent) ears. You sighed, as you ran a hand through your hair. You knew that nobody was there, yet you called out and now you were left disappointed,

“Welcome back.” Came a causal voice, causing you to jump up and let out a small scream.

“Sherlock?!” You yelled with widened eyes, “What the FUCK are you doing in my house?!” You screeched, your hands trembling. 

“Drinking tea. What does it look like?” He responded with a nonchalant smirk, as he raised a teacup to his lips. You pressed your index and middle finger to your temple, 

“Okay, but WHY.” You yelled, as you crossed your arms across your chest.

“You wouldn’t be able to sleep otherwise.” He shrugged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is so poorly made.  
> i guess im losing intrest in sherlock but ik you guys like this so i'll try to continue it. j might do a my hero academia one shots book idk though


	6. resentment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sherlock reveals some secrets that will change your life.

You bickered with Sherlock for quite some time, trying to knock some sense into his brain. For someone who was a self proclaimed genius, he really knew nothing of human emotions. In complete honesty, you wanted to be left alone. You didn’t want to sleep. Yet here you were, bickering with a full grown male, trying to persuade him to leave your god damn house. It was a lost cause, deep down you knew this, but your defensive nature caused you to continue this senseless argument with the large man baby stood in your living room.

“Honestly, Sherlock… just get the fuck out of my house.” You pleaded, as you rubbed your temple for a moment. He rolled his eyes at your words,

“It isn’t your home anymore, (Y/N). Your father wrote in his will to sell it to somebody.” Sherlock explained, his eyes filled with a look you couldn’t place your finger on. Annoyance? Quite possibly. You stood still, your eyes narrowing a small bit in confusion, 

“What?” You whispered, your voice breaking slightly. You had heard him loud and clear, but you needed to know if he was lying, 

“You’re homeless, (Y/N). Keep up. Luckily, John is forcing me to offer you temporary residence at our flat. This is non negotiable.” He grumbled. He didn’t seem happy about the situation. Frankly, neither were you,

“Why is it non negotiable?” You countered, your eyes narrowed in annoyance. Sherlock ruffled his ebony hair, letting out another grunt,

“Because, (Y/N), John happens to care about you- god knows why.” Sherlock responded after some deliberation. Your eyes narrowed further, this time in defiance, 

“Why should I go with you, Sherlock? What’s stopping me from just renting another apartment?” You countered, your mouth morphing into a scowl as your conversation with Sherlock continued. 

“You truly believe that I am unaware of your current financial situation, (L/N)?” Sherlock’s arm crossed over his chest, as his eyes narrowed slightly. As if he was judging you, and the moves you made. You stiffened slightly at his words, though your face retained its calm expression,

“Sherlock Holmes, I detest you.” You growled, as you turned on your heel. You stomped off towards your once-bedroom, and proceed to shove your belongings into a bag. It didn’t take you much time at all to finish packing, and by the time you re-emerged from your room, Sherlock was on his second cup of tea. 

“Shall we get going, Ms. (L/N)?” His head tilted as he spoke, setting down the delicate glass cup. You grunted with a nod of your head, slinging the bag over your shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry for not updating in what seems like millennia. it seems that i have lost all interest in sherlock at this point. perhaps if i were to re-watch the series, i could continue work on this book. i feel awful, as i know you all enjoy this book, so i tried to spit out this atrocious chapter for compensation. i apologize deeply.

**Author's Note:**

> hi, and welcome to the first chapter of my sherlock holmes/reader fan fiction. perhaps the story started a tad heavy, but honestly i wanted to get the meeting out of the way


End file.
